In the wilderness to the North, out past the heaths and hills, amongst the pines and mountains and rivers running in between, lived Morgan and his dear friend. This friend was now sickly with melancholia; she shut herself in her room and refused to leave. The bright pink-white magnolia blooms of spring were her favorite flower. To cheer her, Morgan decided he would find a bloom for her.
It was midsummer, and the hills were yellowed and dried. Under the magnolia tree lay all the dead young blooms, shaded by the broad green leaves which replaced them. Morgan was determined; he recalled his same friend describing a willow tree who had a very large heart. This willow, Morgan thought, must be a wise willow, for it has a large heart. It must know where to find a magnolia bloom!
So, Morgan sought out the venerable, crooked willow. And in the middle of a tall grassy field sat the willow with a heart. It rose from the middle of the empty field like a mountain in a sea of yellowed grass. It was as old as the valley, and one could quite plainly see through a large crack that, within the dense core of the tree, there sat a large, beating heart.
Morgan implored the willow, and addressed it: “Dear venerable, wise Willow, I am looking for a magnolia bloom, and would like to ask for your help.”
“A magnolia bloom? In this heat, this midsummer gloom?” The lonely willow replied.
“For my dear friend, I would do anything,”
“Then sit under my boughs, rest a while, while I think of something,” the willow finally mumbled.
Morgan complied. However, the willow did not think, for it had no brain, just a large heart, through which its emotions flared. The willow was mighty jealous of the magnolia tree for it had beautiful flowers with milky pink petals. The magnolia was beloved by all in the valley and even beyond. No one stopped to admire the willow for its fuzzy white catkin-flowers. The widowed, elderly willow picked Morgan up with its tendrils and flung him far, far and high into the air, into the clouds. And, all at once, he landed atop a forested mountain.
The local folk called this place Tammivuori, and atop its summit lived a fellow by the name of Herr Orkan.
Now Herr Orkan was an old man of many, many years, which could be counted like tree rings in his long, gray hair. He was not native to the valley; the Willow Tree could recount the day in which he arrived, if it could even remember, that is. Herr Orkan was from a foreign land, far across the sea. He was a sailor who did not get along with his fellow crew on account of his love of alcohol and inability to speak his fellows’ language. And so, they threw him overboard in the river, and Herr Orkan washed up in the shadow of Tammivuori.
For years he lived on the mountain, weeping bitterly. His tears ran down his long gray beard, and clouds sprouted from the hairs. He wept and formed great storm clouds, and the locals began to fear him. The timid woodland creatures kept their distance, and all nature avoided him, except the hardy Oaks and Cedars, who taught their young to withstand the fiercest winds.
Herr Orkan loves nothing more than to watch the night sky, for it reminds him of home. But, home reminds him of all of his friends, many of whom he hurt. He thinks of them and he weeps; the stars disappear and the trees shudder. A storm brews.
Now, Morgan greeted Herr Orkan. Herr Orkan did not know the language that Morgan was speaking, but pretended to understand nonetheless.
“And so,” Morgan explained, “if you can create a fierce snowstorm, nature will think that Winter has come about and will slumber again. When the snow melts, nature will think that Spring has come and the magnolia tree will bloom. It will surely please my friend, for whom I would do anything!”
Herr Orkan was confused, but was politely enjoying the company, until he sneezed. When he sneezed, a gale sprang from his beard and carried Morgan off, leaving him desolate once again.
The wind next dropped Morgan near the south of the valley. He landed in a meadow near a ring of hills. Once upon a time this place may have had a name, but no one bothered to remember it. Only nature lives here, and nature does not concern itself much with names.
The most notable inhabitant in this nook of the valley is a sleepy bear. Sleepy Bear cared very much for his wild neighbors, and his neighbors loved him. The bees paid him homage in surplus honey, and the berry bushes hid away their best fruits for him. Sleepy Bear had quite a sweet tooth.
In Autumn, when Sleepy Bear retreats into the earth and slumbers, nature begins to mourn for their friend. They do not know if he will ever stir again. So, the trees shed their leaves, the fish and bees and even the little chickadees slow to a stop, awaiting the morning when Sleepy Bear wakes once more. The winds grow cold and bitter; the streams lose purpose and freeze. Winter arrives.
When he finally emerges from the dirt and shakes the dust off his coat, nature rejoices; the trees and flowers bloom, the birds awaken and the meadows fill with butterflies again. It is during this time that the magnolia blossoms and Spring begins.
Thinking to himself, Morgan wondered if he could convince the bear to rest a while, just until nature retreats in mourning again, and then awaken so that the world explodes with life and the magnolia blossoms for his friend. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he could convince Sleepy Bear.
Morgan approached Sleepy Bear, who was sprawled out in the meadow, who did not so much as glance at him.
“Hullo, Sir Bear!” he said; Sleepy Bear was quiet. “How do you sleep so soundly, so surely, that you slumber for months on end?”
Sleepy Bear licked the honey caked on his muzzle. After a while, it mumbled, “There’s a Frog baker on the moon. They visit every Autumn, when the moon touches the horizon. They give me a gift in the form of a fresh spiced fruitcake. It goes down well with honey and berries and fresh cream, you know. With my belly full, I sleep soundly; otherwise, I would starve.”
Morgan thanked the bear and began to return home. He knew neither how to reach the horizon nor to reach the moon from it.
Defeated, he walked down a steep forested hill. It was dusk, and in the darkness, he tripped over a rock and fell down, down to the bottom of the gorge.
At the bottom of the gorge, in the fading sunlight, lay Morgan. A bright cherub, who happened to be passing through, noticed him. Brimming with eagerness, it picked up a frail Morgan and carried him up, up through the clouds, into the sky.
This cherub quickly grew tired and decided to rest near a lake on the moon. The Frog Baker, who was tired after a long day of baking, set his desserts out on a table near the lake. Frog Baker had laid out muffins oozing with warm blueberries, bowls of red berry pudding, warm, steaming chocolate croissants, fresh cheesecake topped with strawberries and raspberries, and lastly, his pièce de résistance: a triple tiered fruitcake, glazed with honey and topped with berries from beside the lake.
Coming to his senses, Morgan looked to the horizon, and saw the earth passing below. With his good arm, he took the fruitcake and tossed it down to the earth;, and it fell. The triple tiered fruitcake, glazed with honey and topped with berries from beside the lake on the moon fell, fell down past the sky, past the clouds, and landed with a thud in Sleepy Bear’s meadow.
Realizing his quest had come to an end, Morgan looked his last out across the lake to the stars.
A week later, under the blossoming magnolia tree, Morgan’s friend wished for death. Summer became Spring, but Morgan laid unmoving in the shade of the tree. An exhausted cherub brought him back, though it was somewhat disgruntled; it seemed that someone told the cherub to bring the body back to earth.
Morgan’s friend buried the body under that Magnolia tree, right outside his friend’s house, and the tree flourished evermore, so that his friend may remember Morgan.